I Wish I Didn't Remember
by shyinkling
Summary: Sherlock is not doing well so he deals with it the only way he knows how. WARNING: Self Harm
1. Chapter 1

Warning: Self Harm

I hope you are all doing alright, hang in there. Writing always helps me. Thank you for reading!

The loud noises of the pub set my teeth on edge. Each idiot raising their voice to be heard over the din, never anything even vaguely intelligent to be heard. Simply for something to do I take a sip of my beer, peering over the top of my glass at Lestrade and John. They had complained and nagged endlessly until this week I agreed to join them for drinks. Now that they each have had several beers, along with the shots John ordered they were practically falling all over each other laughing at the jokes a small brunette was telling them. She had come over three minutes and 29 seconds ago, and she already had them both drooling all over her. She obviously was simply enjoying the attention but had no intention of going home with either of them, or going past the niceties of flirting. Thirty-eight, office job, recently out of a long-term relationship, owner of a terrier, the unimportant dull details keep bombarding me. I wish I could just leave but I would never hear the end of leaving after being out for less than twenty-seven minutes. The beer slowly becomes more appealing and I take a swig of my drink hoping I can dull my senses a bit. I dislike beer, it sits in my stomach and makes me feel heavy and slow, I wish I could have something stronger. It would have to be much stronger to battle this lot of idiots.

I am drawn out of my thoughts when the woman leans on me laughing at some apparently hilarious joke of John's.

"Did I give you permission to touch me?" I spit at her, pulling myself out of her reach.

"You'd have to be a freak to not want to touch her" Johns' eyes are slightly unfocused as he stares at her.

My heartbeat picks up as I snap "Well excuse me if I don't enjoy strangers constantly throwing themselves at me as you seem to" My discomfort in the situation brings the words forth quicker than I can stop them.

Finally looking up from the brunette John glowers at me "It's just a bit of fun, your just a machine who cant understand human emotions."

I stare dumbfounded at him. Unable to hear any noise in the pub except John's wheezy laugh as he turned away from me, back to the idiotic girl. I feel cold, and numb, as if on autopilot I stand up grabbing my jacket off the back of my chair and stalk out. I vaguely hear Lestrade call my name but I am already to the door and out into the street. I am six roads away before I can form a thought, my fists clenching around the jacket I forgot to put on, two words repeating through my mind freak, machine, freak, machine, freak, machine…. Everything around me seems to blur, the only noise is the thudding of my own heart. My breath piercing my chest at a rapidly increasing tempo. I clench my teeth the air hissing through them, and billowing out into a cloud in the cold air. What I wouldn't give for a hit right now. Mycroft has paid off everyone within walking distance.

In frustration, I begin walking as quickly as possible back to the flat. Faster, and Faster until I am running hoping the speed will force my breath to slow and work properly.

The panic is spreading through my body and I am gasping for air by the time I reach the flat. Using the railings to pull myself up the stairs the only thought I manage to have is the desperate hope that Mrs. Hudson is soundly asleep by now. I through myself into the flat and drop my coat on the floor. Barely managing to close the door I stumble my way to my bedroom.

My room is the complete opposite of the rest of the apartment. Where the living room is chaos, and the kitchen, according to Mrs. Hudson, was not livable, my room is immaculate. It is uncomfortable. Too many memories. Entering this room always means acknowledging something I wish to be hidden. It is in here I can release my demons. My breathing by this point is beyond my control, my transport malfunctioning. Everything is numb. Everything is cold. Everything is empty and yet too full, I have to let it out.

Filed away at the back of my sock index, is a small metal tea tin. Tossing it onto my bed I rip my shirt off as I walk over, a small dark blue towel in hand kept for just such occasions. Seated on the bed I run my fingers over the tin quickly before popping it open to reveal an assortment of razor blades. If I can't process human emotion, if I can't begin to comprehend what others feel, how they must express their emotions, well then I will deal with mine my own way. If I can't be on their level in that say then I will do it a different way. It's true I wish I didn't have emotions. I wish I could drain them out of my body. My hands which were shaking before are now strong and sure. I carefully select one, noting that several are becoming dull and should be disposed of. My senses tingle in expectation.


	2. Chapter 2

**It has been a long time but this summer I found myself wanting to come back to this story. It isn't much but I hope you enjoy it!**

I can hear John come back, stumbling his way up the stairs. I've wrapped myself in my comforter hugging it to my body. John stops outside my doorway breathing heavily.

"Sheraloke" he slurs out.

I tense anticipating him trying to enter my room or bother me. But no, after a moment he continues on and I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. _Did I want him to come in? What good could that have possibly done? What was I thinking?_ My body is exhausted but my brain is still active and awake, calmer than it was before but still wound too tight for sleep. I wait until all noises from John are gone before I stand up, the blanket still wrapped around me and make my way to the living room.

I pick up my cherished violin and sit in my chair allowing the blanket to fall from my shoulders and pool around my waist. I start simply plucking out a simple tune before drawing the bow and falling into a slow and evocative melody. The notes carry me off, freeing me from my thoughts and spirals onto the freedom of the tune. I play on and on switching between my own work and those of the masters. My fingers used to playing for hours on end are beginning to cramp and blister by the time the sun is rising, creeping in through the windows. I push on choosing to lose myself in one more song, I ignore the pain in my fingers and forget about my surroundings.

With the final note, I find myself once again aware of what is going on around me and am shocked to realize I am not alone. According to the sun in the window, I can tell it is before eight o'clock and with Johns drinking the night before I did not anticipate him waking this early.

"That was lovely Sherlock" John grunts out rubbing the back of his head obviously suffering from the previous night's activities.

I chose not to respond, opting instead to stand and attempt to set my instrument back in its case. I say attempt because my battered fingers on both hands refuse to relieve the violin or the bow.

"Sherlock?" He says questioningly

I ignore his comment and stare down at me stupid useless fingers. _How could I have let this happen? Foolish of me to get so carried away. Why didn't I realize I should have stopped?_

"Let me see" Johns voice is close and surprises me before I can move his warm hands are clasping my cold frozen ones. "Jesus" he hisses examining the popped and oozing blisters. His hands and presence are so calming I almost forget my frustration with him instantaneously. "Stay put." He gently places my hand's palm up in my lap and goes quickly to the bathroom to get his first aid kit. I keep my eyes on my hand's thoughts whirling through my mind. I am so caught up in them I jump slightly when he is kneeling before me again. He raises one eyebrow but makes no comment on my jumpiness. Along with his first aid kit, he also has a bowl of water and a small towel.

He carefully washes first my right then left hand in the warm water. Under his ministrations, my mind goes blissfully blank and I bask in the comfort of his touch. I notice Johns curiosity before I take note of where his hands are, one of his hands is lightly feeling the base of my right wrist. I pull my hand swiftly from his grasp as if I was burnt, instinctively fisting my hands and hissing through my teeth. There are only scars that far down nothing recent. He hasn't really learned anything. I stand up, John shuffles awkwardly out of my way "Sherlo-" he begins but without sparing him a second glance I stride into my room slamming the door behind me.

Last night I had never even considered sleeping and I am therefore still in the trousers and button up I wore to the bar. I strip the item off and refusing to look down at my body I pull on a long sleeved cotton shirt and soft silk pants before crawling under my blankets and curling into myself. To my relief, John does not come to bother me. I am left alone in my dark room my hateful thoughts my only company.

Although I lay in bed all day and fatigue gives me a pounding headache I calculate in total I have slept thirty seven minutes in brief spurts always waking with a racing heart and shuddering breaths. I need to get out of the flat, I need a case! I grab my mobile and grown when I see the time. Unless something serious had happened Lestrade would be off for the evening already. And if something had happened I would have heard from him. Soon my racing mind gives me no other option but to leave the flat Perhaps my homeless network has come across something the police have missed. I listen carefully, I had long ago lost track of Johns comings and goings but from the absolute silence in the flat, I determine he is either asleep or out. I swiftly dress and throw on my jacket and scarf before stepping out of the room. Johns coat and shoes are by the door. _Asleep then._ I steal silently out of the flat and down the empty street. I always love London but at night without all the idiot tourists blundering about the air is full of potential energy. In many ways, to me it feels as if the city is holding its breath waiting to see what will happen next. Light bathes the street in pools from the street lamps and passing cars headlights. I sink into the shadows and make my way to Regent's Park.

A boy of sixteen meets me almost as soon as I arrive.

"Evening Mr. Holmes" the boy grins up at me

"Anything interesting?" I ask as I hand him a ten pound note.

"Mr. Dawson is back in town sir and up to his old business." The boy takes the note carefully putting it in his pocket and keeping his hand there as though he is afraid of pickpockets which is ironic considering his line of business.

"In his old spot?" I question

"No sir. He is much farther south than he used to be."


End file.
